


Loss

by demiclar



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Cayde-6 death anniversary fic, Drifter being soft, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Season of Arrivals, The Guardian is Nonbinary for your preference, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demiclar/pseuds/demiclar
Summary: Two years after the death of Cayde-6, the Guardian finds their world is still crumbling around them. Drifter does whatever he can to help ease the pain.(I meant to post this on the actual anniversary (because that's when it takes place) but I was slow so please enjoy it late)Also if you've read my fic Trust, you can think of this as Trust pt. 2.
Relationships: The Drifter/Guardian (Destiny), The Drifter/Nonbinary Guardian (Destiny)
Kudos: 33





	Loss

The Guardian was abnormally quiet today. Drifter knew they were quiet all the time—preferred to let their Ghost speak for them most times, and relied on a complex language of hand gestures and motions when they didn’t—but today was different. Today they were utterly silent. They’d been in his company for hours now, and Drifter hadn’t heard or seen a thing. Not a whisper or word from machine or hand.

They’d risen earlier than normal this morning, too. The Guardian had entered his little shop in the annex hours before the sun had climbed above the horizon, forsaking the sleep they’d begun to rely so heavily upon. Even more so since the pyramids had come to haunt their system. They’d given him only a little nod in response when he’d greeted them, moving right past him without a touch or a hello, making their way to the table tucked in the corner of the space, still covered in plans and papers and diagrams for his new banks. There, they’d sat for hours in silence.

He hadn’t understood why until after they’d left. At first, he thought nothing of it. The Guardian worked a hard job, getting into a little funk was common, expected even, especially now. He’d assumed maybe they’d just had a nightmare, would rather work than try to go back to sleep. He’d been content to leave it at that, to wait for them to be ready and if they wanted to tell him about it, he’d be all ears. He’d almost left it at that, until he’d started to pick up the pieces. A hunter, wearing a dark cloak with a white spade set on her back, a titan with a like mark, the edges rough and hewn almost by design, a warlock with a glowing spade adorning his bicep.

The realization had smacked him in the face far too late, and by the time he was turning to look back at that table where they’d been seated, the Guardian was gone.

Trying to reach them on coms only brought more silence, but he didn’t dare reach out to their emergency frequency for an answer. No use in making the situation any worse than it already was. But he kept his eyes open, his comms loud and listened in on the other planet’s channels, waiting for a mention of the Guardian or the voice of their gnat Ghost, anything to tell him where they were, that they were okay, or as close to it as he could hope for.

He found himself pacing near all day, only half focusing on bringing Guardian’s through Gambit or monitoring the charging of the seed on Io, and he closed up shop hours early, shooting off a quick message to Eris telling her to handle the rest of the mess for the day because he had things to do. He was only just dragging the grate down in the doorway when a ping from the Derelict indicated there was a Guardian onboard, and sure enough it was them.

When he transmatted onto the ship, he found the main bay empty, but he followed the walkways back to his little snowy chamber, finding familiar footprints leading into the shipping container he called home. At first, he didn’t see them. His desk had been disturbed, tools he’d left out pushed aside, a set of bullets resting in the space that had been cleared, likely pulled from a gun in a hasty movement, but he’d never seen the Guardian be anything but careful with their guns. From there, he turned around in the small space, a shuddering breath drawing his eyes to the slightly shaking little form resting atop his makeshift bed, tucked impossibly tight against the wall.

The Guardian was curled on their side, laying atop his makeshift bed, half nestled in the sleeping bag. Their helmet was gone, and their eyes closed, dark hair swept forward to half cover their face. In their hands, they held two items close to their chest. On the bottom, in their left hand, a dark, torn black and red cloak—so close to their face they might’ve been pressing their face into it, breathing it in—and in their right hand, a gun, the Ace of Spades, likely what they’d unloaded onto the desk.

His chest tightened into discomfort, and he forced a deep breath as he made a step towards them, wincing as the floor of the container creaked under his shift of weight. The Guardian shifted, eyes peeling open so slowly as he moved to sit on the edge of the little bed. From here, even in the low light, he could see they looked awful. Their eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them flushed and puffy, and from how sluggishly they moved, shifting their head a little to get a better view of him, he could tell they’d likely only just crashed after a heavy cry.

“Hey.” He breathed as their eyes met his finally. The Guardian didn’t even try to sit up, just tucked the cloak a little closer to their chest before releasing it and reaching out towards him with an open hand. He took it without question.

“You wanna talk about it?”

The Guardian’s only answer was to shake their head, shifting their free arm to hold the cloak and gun close to their chest again. They tightened their grip on his hand, pulling it closer towards themself. He could see from their arm that they were still wearing armor, and he could see it on whatever parts of their body wasn’t covered by the cloak or sleeping bag. Dark armor, black and gray and deep reds, nothing that they usually wore. Drifter knew his Guardian liked colors, they wore whites and golds and shining reds and blues, a bold spectacle on the battlefield, ever since they’d dragged themselves out of the pit they’d fallen into on the Tangled Shore and they’d begun to live again. To see them back in those colors now, mourning colors, they made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to explain.

“I know you miss him.” He managed, because the silence was so suffocating, he could scarcely breathe around it. He’d never liked Cayde much, but he knew he’d been important to the Guardian, had been a leader and a mentor for them in a way they had never quite been able to explain to him. He’d never minded the fact. When they’d come to him after his death he’d done his best to offer them a path through their grief, a way to manage it and move on. The Guardian had accepted it, had accepted him, too. He was nothing if not grateful.

The Guardian nodded only slightly, but their eyes had left his, had moved down to his hand. He watched as they let go of the gun, devoting their hands to his as they set to drawing off his glove, peeling away the tight leather before pulling his hand even closer, pressing the softest kiss to his barred skin.

“It feels like all of our problems started when Cayde died.” They breathed, and he could feel their lips brush along his skin as they laced their fingers and drew their joined hands to rest against their face, tucked just below their nose.

“The Scorn, the Hive, the Taken, Savathûn.” They shook their head, unable to even voice the extent of what they were going through now. He watched them shut their eyes tight, sympathy and a softness he rarely allowed himself to feel spreading through him. “Sometimes I feel like it’s my fault.”

Drifter blinked at that, only to grasp it and nearly roll his eyes at the foolishness. It was just like them to blame themself, that was the nature of such a selfless Guardian.

“None of this is your fault.” He told them firmly. “There’s nothing you could have done better, nothing you could have prevented or fixed—”

“But I-“ the Guardian cut in and he shot them a look that was nonnegotiable.

“Nothing.” He used his grip on them to pull them upright, moving just slow enough to give them a little warning before he had them sitting up and he used his free hand to cup their face. “You are the sole reason we are all still alive today. I know that the Vanguard expects a lot of you, but you and I both know you can’t prevent every piece of shit the darkness throws at us. None of this is your fault.”

The Guardian’s face had crumpled in his hand, the way it did when they were on the verge of tears, and their lip wobbled as they reached a hand up to hold his wrist, his thumb already moving to soothe, caressing gentle lies across their cheek.

“But I could have saved him.”

Drifter knew why they thought so. Every second of footage had been posted on the Vanguard channels from that night, the access had been highly restricted but he’d found his way in, had found the recordings from the Guardian’s helmet cameras and their Ghost and had poured through it all. He’d seen their reaction when Cayde’s Ghost had died, had felt their panic when they’d slaughtered their way through scorn with the efficiency of a godslayer only to make it to Cayde just moments too late. He’d practically heard the thoughts running though their head. _If only I’d been faster, if only I’d been stronger, better, smarter. I could have saved him. I could have saved him._

A tear rolled onto his thumb.

“I could have saved him.”

Drifter could only shake his head.

“No.” He said, pulling his eyes from theirs for a moment. “No, you couldn’t have.” He told them, and when they opened their eyes to protest he shot them with another strong look. “Come here.”

He didn’t wait for them to respond, pulling them up and onto their knees and half leading half dragging them towards him, until he could pull them into his lap, the gun and cloak set in their lap as they leaned into his chest.

“You did everything you could.” He reminded them, reaching up a hand to wipe away a few of the tears that had begun to flow down their cheeks. “No one, no matter how skilled, could’ve saved Cayde. Uldren had him, there’s nothing you could’ve done about it.”

The Guardian struggled in a deep breath, finally nodding against his chest, finally agreeing with him. Still, he could tell from the way they were gripping his hand now that they were fighting back sobs.

“It’s alright.” He found himself murmured into their hair. The last time this had happened, the last time he’d held them crying against his chest had been mere weeks ago, but so much had changed since then. Last time, he’d only wanted to get them to stop crying, to ease away the hurt and the pain, but now…

“It’s alright if you want to cry. It’s alright if you miss him.” He wrapped an arm sturdily around them. “It’s alright if you’re scared.”

And if that was what undid them, he wouldn’t mind. He didn’t mind when the Guardian let go of whatever restraint they’d been holding and leaned into him, hands gripping his clothes so tight he was surprised they didn’t tear. He didn’t mind when they sobbed into his chest, or when they clung to him afterwards and didn’t move for what felt like hours. He didn’t mind when they went limp against him, and he didn’t mind helping them shed their armor before they slid into the sleeping bag. He didn’t mind the warmth he rarely allowed himself when he joined them, and he tucked them into his arms and held them through the long night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I haven't posted anything in a while because I've actually just moved out to college! I wrote this really quick amid doing my homework and haven't really sat down to properly proofread it so please excuse any errors you may have found! I thought that since my fic Trust really took off I'd write something similar for you all to enjoy, so I hope you liked it! Anyways, until next time!


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